Archive for ‘Melange’


Nostalgia entered my dream with a click and a quack. Rubber ducky, it is so nice to have you back.

But, what happened to your size? You will not fit in my bath. Your presence is causing solastalgia as mental wrath.

Are your yealings just as ginormous or are you an anomaly? Will you grow so big that grass is what you see in a tree?

Skinkles from eyes tell me you have no desire to maim, but would not you prefer ocean life, duck who is not lame?

I wish, to you, both happiness and joy, but, truth be told, I would be more ecstatic if you were just a tub toy. ; )


Each of us is uniquely special, but some are more outstanding than the rest. What rewards the latter state when belonging is one’s primary quest?

Swimming with the school is a choice facultative, of course. The only currents to follow, though, are the ones that propel without remorse.

Never will there be extirpation of either doubt or fear. Both accepting and liking one’s place in the pod requires holding affirmations near.

Self is the only adversary to finding confidence in connections and peace. Others will flock towards a golden soul when insecurities cease.

Sincerity, of course, matters in ‘hullo’s and ‘cheery-bye‘s and interlocution inbetween. Strive for own likes and wants and followers will be seen. ; )


Regardless of the count of aves in the yonder greenery, the worthiness of the chirper in this hand is unquantifiable.

If contemporary style merits status as a hyperobject, are our markings shared beyond this place, endlessly mirroring us?

Whether our character parts are inborn or borrowed of fondness, presentation is decisory per day, free to change feathers as it may.

Bird sounds colour from the earthiest plumage as do thoughts from soul black-dressed. Lese majesty for book covers judged is easily dismissed.

Seeking early crawlers and burly lawyers stands as quite a task. Our charms prefer a challenge, so gullible ones need not apply.

To what ends have the two in the bush made, it is not wondered. What matters is in the palm of hand: confidence in one’s own show. ; )


Bubble maker, what have you created today? Orogeny may have lifted its mountain a bit higher, but I am more impressed by the soapy shapes formed by your circled wire.

Has a bubble ever landed on your tongue and, if so, what was its flavour? I would guess it to be salty or bitter, but you spilled dopiaza in the detergent and claim umami is how these savour?

Oh! The juggler of flame and blade tried to shanghai you into his show? Well, I am glad you turned him down because pops are pleasant, but more so are watching bubbles both blow and grow. ; )


I told the mush to meet me by the girl in the bowler hat hanging behind the pine. Perhaps they have not yet arrived due to either yield or stopping sign.

This katzenjammer has me yearning for pillows, blanket, and bed, but if I am to go out like this, I appreciate my eyes will last see these baby blues before turning dead.

Fuzzy brain is reeling and aspin, but epiphanies are also in tow, realising ecocides destroy places while emo-sides artfully uplift locays with their show.

Does that honk mean I have been found and will soon with pillows lay? Cry not, dear lady, for we shall meet again–perhaps, quite soon–as franc in pocket will neither gabelle nor home fare pay. ; )

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